The retreat did not come cleanly.
Enemy lines broke, but men did not vanish all at once. Some fled downslope, slipping and scrambling over loose stone. Others fought on in small knots, driven more by panic than purpose. The field remained dangerous in fragments, sharp and unpredictable.
Liang Wei pulled her spear free and stepped back at once.
She did not stand over the body. She did not look for witnesses. She turned, scanning her flank, her breathing steady despite the burn in her lungs and the dull ache spreading through her shoulder. The arrow had not lodged deep. Blood darkened her armor, slow and warm.
"Hold the line," she called. Not loud. Not urgent. "Do not pursue."
Her men heard her. Some hesitated, eyes bright with adrenaline, but they held. Shields lifted again. Formation tightened. What remained of the enemy scattered rather than tested them further.
The horn sounded, shorter now. A call to regroup.
The field settled into its aftermath. Noise thinned into groans and shouted names. The dust began to fall. The sharp edge of violence dulled, leaving behind weight and heat and the smell of iron.
Liang Wei moved through her unit methodically. She counted heads without moving her lips. Too many gaps. Not as many as there could have been. She gave quick instructions. Two to secure the slope. One to fetch water. Another to mark the fallen before bodies were moved.
Only when everything around her had a task did she allow herself to stop.
Her hands were still steady. That bothered her more than the pain.
She leaned briefly on the spear, grounding herself in its familiar balance. The shaft was nicked now, scarred by blades and shields. Honest damage. It felt earned.
The sword did not stay quiet. It pulsed once, sharp and sudden, like a heartbeat out of place. Heat flared through the wrappings at her side, not enough to burn, but enough to demand attention. It reacted to the blood. To the violence still hanging in the air. To her.
Liang Wei's jaw tightened.
Not now.
She shifted the spear to her other hand and forced herself to move again. The heat faded, retreating back into the metal with visible reluctance. She did not touch it. She would not.
Across the field, officers gathered. Orders moved faster now, cleaner. Runners went back and forth. Someone was shouting for the marshal.
No one answered.
The body could not be ignored forever. Word spread the way it always did, unevenly at first, then all at once. Marshal Li Jianjun was dead. Not fallen or missing. Dead.
The enemy withdrawal turned into a rout.
Liang Wei was not summoned. She was not questioned. Not yet. Her name moved without her, carried by mouths she did not see. A soldier on the left flank. A spear. One decisive strike. The details blurred and sharpened at the same time.
By the time the wounded were being gathered, the field belonged to them.
She knelt only when it was necessary. A soldier younger than the rest, shaking too hard to speak. She pressed cloth to his wound and told him to breathe. Another man with a broken arm. She helped bind it, tightened the wrap, then moved on.
She did not stay anywhere long enough for the noise to catch up with her.
When the order came to withdraw to the encampment, she followed it without comment.
The march back was slower. Heavier. Voices stayed low, if they spoke at all. The ground they had memorized earlier now felt changed underfoot, marked by bodies and darkened earth. Liang Wei kept her eyes forward and her pace even.
The camp received them differently than it had that morning. There was sound now. Relief seeped into it, uneven and uncertain. Fires burned higher than before. Water was passed from hand to hand without counting. Someone laughed and then fell quiet again, surprised by the sound of their own voice.
Liang Wei handed her spear over for inspection and stood while a medic cut away the edge of her armor to examine the wound beneath. It was shallow. Painful. But manageable.
"You're lucky," the man said.
She nodded once and said nothing.
Night came down slowly, carrying with it exhaustion and disbelief. Tents filled. Names were written. Losses counted. The victory did not feel complete, but it held.
Somewhere deeper in the camp, a fire burned brighter than the rest. Voices lifted around it. Someone produced wine. Celebration took shape unevenly, premature but unmistakably real.
Liang Wei did not intend to join it.
She turned away, meaning to return to her assigned space, when movement caught her eye. A familiar silhouette near the fire. Broader shoulders. Command posture. Commander Zhou had arrived late, his presence folding itself into the camp as if it had always been meant to be there.
She stopped.
He was not looking at her. Not yet. He stood with another man at his side, listening, observing. An assassin or a loyal guard, it was impossible to tell which. His gaze moved over the soldiers with measured calm, taking in more than the noise suggested.
The sword reacted again.
Sharper this time. Heat surged through the wrappings, sudden and impatient. It fed on the wine, on the loosened restraint, on the thinning edge between discipline and exposure. Liang Wei felt it like a warning pressed against her ribs.
She took a step back without thinking.
Someone laughed behind her and bumped her shoulder. Wine sloshed. For half a breath, she lost her balance.
Commander Zhou's head turned.
Their eyes did not meet. Not fully. But his gaze paused, just long enough to register her presence, her stance, the way she corrected herself too quickly for a common soldier.
Liang Wei steadied and moved on.
She left the light behind and returned to the darker edge of the camp, where the ground sloped away and the noise dulled. Only then did she sit.
Sleep did not come easily.
When she closed her eyes, she saw loose stone and a staggered step. She felt the resistance of armor giving way. The sword pulsed once more, faint but persistent, as if reminding her it had been waiting all along.
She turned onto her side and forced her breathing to slow.
The war had noticed her.That was the problem.It rarely looked away once it did.